Hearts of Darkness First Draft
by dark-hearted rose
Summary: Very AU. The year is 1961 and Christine Daaé is the lead of a scientific expedition to Papua New Guinea. When things go awry and her team is captured by natives, she alone is spared by their 'god', a hideous yet alluring man called Erik... M for a reason.
1. Prologue

**Full Summary:** Very, very AU. The year is 1961 and Christine Daaé is the lead of an British scientific expedition to the remote country of Papua New Guinea. When things go horribly wrong and her team is captured by fierce natives, she believes she is going to die until she is spared by their "god", a hideously deformed yet alluring man called Erik. Meanwhile, back in England, her colleague and fiancé Raoul resolves to find out what happened to her... **Rated 'M' for intense sequences of violence and gore, language, and adult themes.**

**Author's Note:** Please keep in mind that I'm writing this for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and the aim is to write 50,000 words in 30 days; yes, I know parts will be horribly-written, I just need to get the ideas out there. I plan on revising it and submitting a second draft after November is over. :)

**Disclaimer:** Any recognizable characters from _The Phantom of the Opera_ do not belong to me. Everything else pretty much does. Please ask me for permission if you intend to borrow any original characters. Thanks.

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Prologue

The man sputtered, water gushing from his mouth as he crawled up the beach, leaving the pallet. He collapsed on the sand, drawing a deep breath. He didn't know where he was or what he was going to do next. All he knew was that he was still alive and didn't like it.

_I was supposed to die out there, dammit_, he thought bitterly. _What's the point if there's nothing to live for?_

He lay on the beach for a while, enjoying the feel of breathing slowly and deliberately, naturally, not having to gulp and gasp for the precious oxygen and instead receiving a great flow of salt water. He closed his eyes—so sensitive to light even after all these years—and listened, merely listened to the gentle harmony of the waves lapping against the shore, the quiet breeze in the palms, brushing against his cursed and skeletal face, the bane of his existence.

Sighing, he sat up, cradling his face in his hands. He was tired, overwrought; he was even hungry, which was a rare phenomenon in itself. He supposed he should be thankful for the rest and quiet and solitude so foreign to him as of late, circumstances being as they are—

_Were_, he corrected himself. _That's all in the past. And I'll never have to go back._

Not that he knew where he was or if he could even return to his native land even if he chose, but it was a comforting thought all the same to a man who'd all his life been tortured and tormented by Fate. Now, he could afford to take matters into his own hands.

He removed his hands from his face, soaking in the tropical scenes that lay all around him. Perhaps he had landed on a small desert island?

He stood now, slowly, re-accustoming his legs to support his weight instead of having to paddle. Finally, he took a step forward, and then another; he felt like a child, though anything but small at his tremendous height.

Satisfied that he would be able to walk again, he threw one last glance at the ocean to his back and headed into the trees and the comforting darkness that lurked there.

-----

By the time night fell he'd been able to establish a general lay of the land; at least the parts closest to the shore. He had underestimated the size of the land mass after all; the dense forest seemed to stretch on endlessly, a lush tropical paradise the likes of which he couldn't even begin to fully comprehend. Not yet, anyway. But for the moment, he couldn't afford to lose any recognizable geographic features that would help him maneuver his way through the forest, so he always ensured that wherever he went, he could always hear the constant whisper of the waves.

He sat in the near-darkness quietly, savoring the taste of the fresh meat he'd been able to catch, his small cook fire giving off a feeble circle of light. He swatted away a bug aimlessly, surprised that anything could even consider him desirable, even if it was for nourishment. He smirked, thinking of the tales of vampire bats and other such blood-sucking creatures of the rainforest, wondering if he too would become their prey.

Shrugging apathetically, thoroughly enjoying himself, he took hold of the small gourd he had filled with water from a nearby stream and took a sip, relishing in the way the cool water sloshed over his still-parched lips and tongue. Who knew the sea, the embodiment of beauty for so many, could be so ruthless and cruel?

_Then again_, he thought bitterly, _beauty is always an illusion. Always._

Absorbed in his thoughts as he was, he didn't hear the rustle of the underbrush or the quiet padding of approaching feet until it was too late. The cook fire was suddenly extinguished, and he was plunged into blackness; before his eyes could adjust, he felt a sudden and piercing pain in his neck, and he slumped forward, losing consciousness.

-----

They gathered around the long, limp form slowly, clutching their weapons protectively, their dark eyes wide.

One member of the group, just barely a man, stooped close to the unconscious figure and positioned him so he was laying on his side; one of the tailing members brought the light.

Frightened exclamations burst forth from all as the light hit the stranger's face. It was hideous, resembling a skull, the eyes deep set, the lips thin and translucent such that the teeth were visible; there was even no nose!

"Great Rishka," breathed one member of the hunting party, making a gesture over his forehead, the rest of his companions following suit.

"It's so ugly!" exclaimed another. "Let's leave it."

"We should bring it to Laon," said the youngling, still kneeling close to the figure in fascination.

"Be quiet, Wipualo, you don't know what you're saying," snapped another member of the party.

Wipualo stood suddenly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I finished my Trial, _Father_. I am a man now, and every man and member of a hunting party is allowed to have his say."

A few of the men nodded, murmuring among themselves about the disturbance.

"The Youngling is right," said the senior member of the group, a man the villagers called Suna. "We should bring him to Laon."

-----

The older man had his back to the door, but he immediately identified the approaching footsteps as those of his protégé. "What is it, Wipu?"

"We found a strange man during our hunt; I thought it was best we bring him to you, you might like to see him."

He wrinkled his brow, though kept his back turned. "All of us are strange, my boy."

"Stranger than most," replied Wipualo with a slight grin. Lowering his voice, he added, "I brought him because of the prophecy."

At this, Laon spun around. "Bring him in."

Wipu nodded in respect towards his teacher and left the hut, returning a moment later followed by a few men carrying a long pole between them, a long, slender figure bound by wrists and ankles to the pole.

Laon gestured for the men to deposit their unconscious ward in the middle of the hut, and they cut him loose.

After a few moments of silence, Laon turned to his pupil. "What do you think, Wipu? Is it him?"

"Well, look at his face, the rest of his body even. The muscles are nearly invisible, I've never seen a man so slender."

He nodded. "There is but one way to tell."

"What?"

At that moment, the man on the floor began to stir. Wipu started back in shock; the man's eyes were _glowing_. Confused, horrified, he looked at his teacher; he was smiling.

"He has come," murmured the old man, making a gesture over his forehead. He touched his fingers gently to the face of the stranger, remnants of the tranquilizer still in his system.

"Welcome, my lord."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_Ten years later, 1961_

The young woman sputtered, coughing, while her friend thumped her lightly on the back, a few other restaurant patrons glancing over at the small booth in the corner to see what all the fuss was about. "_What_?"

"Jesus, Christine, I was only joking," said her friend, taking another sip from her glass of wine. "You know he can't possibly be cheating on you; I've seen the way he looks at you, he's completely smitten."

"It's not something to joke about, and it wasn't funny," muttered Christine, absentmindedly pushing her angel hair pasta around her plate with her fork. "Thanks for ruining my appetite, Meg."

Meg grinned, sweeping a lock of her dark, stringy hair back into place behind her ear. "You were nervous to begin with, don't blame it all on me."

"Is it that obvious?" asked Christine, concerned.

"You've always been sort of transparent, Christine, as far as emotions are concerned." At her companion's frown, Meg added, "Then again, I've known you for the past six years, so that might be a factor as well…"

Christine sighed, putting down her fork and fretting with her blonde hair. "I hadn't wanted to be so nervous, I can never function properly," she muttered.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. I mean, it's completely understandable to be nervous about the announcement that could make or break your career…"

At this, Christine gave a small groan and buried her face in her hands. Meg spied a waiter approaching and shooed him away before continuing, "Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say."

"Yes, I think so."

"I'm sorry," said Meg, patting Christine gently on the back. "What I meant to say all along was this: there is absolutely no reason at all to be nervous, as you are the _obvious_ choice for the lead of this esteemed expedition you've been telling me all about for the past five months."

Christine smiled, taking her hands away from her face. "Thanks, Meg."

"Of course. Now finish your dinner so we can celebrate your twenty sixth birthday _properly_."

-----

"Good morning, Doctor."

He looked up from the stack of papers on his desk, running his hand through his thick, though graying, hair. "Ah, Christine," he said, standing, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, a gesture reminiscent of the chivalry and gallantry of old. "How lovely to see you, my dear. I trust you had a good birthday?"

She giggled a little, reclaiming her hand graciously. "Yes, Doctor Flynn, I did, thank you." She sat at her smaller desk in the same room, though opposite from him. "I do, however, have a slight confession to make."

Flynn looked up at her again, abandoning the stack of documents again, and extremely willingly, though knowing he would probably regret it later. "Oh?"

"I…" she faltered, then took a deep breath and tried again. "I'm rather nervous about the chairman's announcement today…"

He chuckled. "Christine, my dear, trust me. You have nothing to worry about; never before in my life have I seen such credentials in a person of your age. You might as well consider yourself already assigned to the position."

"Oh, Doctor, I just don't understand how you can be so sure about this, I mean, really, I'm new to the department, and there are so many other qualified people here, and, let's face it, who would choose a woman to be the lead of such an important—"

"Stop," interrupted the Doctor. "Christine, stop. Think of what you are saying."

"What? I'm only stating a well-known fact, men are obviously more qualified than women," she said bitterly. "Why else am I the only female scientist in this building?"

Doctor Flynn sighed. "I don't quite know what to say to that, I'm afraid."

"It's all right, Doctor," she sighed. "I apologize; I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, you were only trying to talk some sense into me."

"Perfectly all right, my dear." He stood and approached her. "If you need anything, Christine, you only need to ask, you know that. I…" He paused, not sure if he should continue, finally deciding after a moment that he would. "I know things have been difficult for you since your father died."

She bit her lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully. "It's…frustrating at times, Doctor. It has already been over a year; you would think… well, never mind, I won't trouble you with it."

He kept silent, wanting her to continue, yet knowing she wouldn't. That was one of the things he had come to so admire about her, one of the most obvious, most appealing traits about her personality: her strong will. He knew that with her superiors she was properly deferent and resigned, though he had been acquainted with her long enough to know that it was only a show, only necessary to not damage fragile egos and result in the loss of her job. He admired her, exceeding in a field dominated by men—for she was right, she was the only woman in the building, aside from the various clerks and secretaries. She had worked hard for her spot, and he hoped that she would be rewarded with this assignment. And he had been telling the truth earlier; never before had he ever seen anyone work quite as hard as she, never before had he seen anyone with such an impressive resume, or with such vast experience.

He just prayed that someone else would be able to recognize her genius as well…

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but would you excuse me for a moment?" she said, standing up and stepping away from her desk, heading towards the door. "I've just realized that I told Raoul I would come to see him for a little bit; I think he feels guilty for not being able to get off work in time for my birthday…" She was grinning slightly, a little more of her customary cheeriness returning, another aspect that he so appreciated about her.

He laughed. "Ah, well, you must forgive us men for being so work-oriented sometimes, Christine. Most of us don't know how to step back and spend time with a beautiful young thing like yourself."

She blushed, the rosy tint enhancing and further complementing her complexion, her blue eyes sparkling. "Actually, Doctor," she said, laughing. "Actually, I think I'm much more work-oriented than he is, to tell you the truth. He's the one who is always telling me to take a break."

"And of course he is most definitely right," said Flynn.

"Doctor, if I stop, then I shudder to think what state everything would be in once I returned," she quipped teasingly, and left the room without a backward glance.

"Touché, my dear," murmured the Doctor. "Touché."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Christine smiled to herself as she walked down the corridor, nodding in respectful acknowledgement when she passed a few of her colleagues. Luckily, no one stopped to chat about the inevitable announcement that was to happen in a few hours' time, for which she was extremely grateful, as she was already skittish and having a hard time controlling herself and keeping the raucous butterflies in her stomach at bay.

"Knock, knock," she said, her knuckles corresponding in turn, connecting with the wood of the open door to Raoul's small office. He looked up, and what was once a frown of puzzlement transformed immediately into a wide grin.

"Christine!" He stood and made his way over to her, maneuvering through the various boxes and crates and filing cabinets all piled high with papers that cluttered the already heavily cramped space. "This place is a mess, sorry." He closed the door and ushered her in, offering her the chair that sat in front of his desk.

"Oh, I don't mind, mine's not much better," she assured him, and took the seat, playing absentmindedly with her hair.

"You're nervous," he observed, sitting down again.

Immediately, Christine sprang up from the chair and took to pacing—a rather difficult task, considering the abundant obstacles that littered the floor. "Oh, Raoul, it's killing me… I'm not usually so nervous, you know that…"

He sighed and stood, approaching her warily, hesitantly blocking her path. "Christine…"

She looked up from the floor, her troubled blue eyes meeting his green. She drew a deep breath, and then another, attempting to relax. "I know, Raoul. I know."

He gathered her into his arms, holding her, smiling slightly as she buried her face against the crook in his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head lightly, inhaling her sweet scent, letting his fingers dally and play with a few of her blonde locks, so much more brilliant and golden than his own. "Everything will be fine, Little Lotte," he whispered in French, calling her by the pet name he liked to use for her. "Everything will be fine. Trust me."

She sighed, murmuring something into his shoulder.

"_Je t'aime, ma petite_," he said, and kissed the top of her head once more.

She smiled up at him, kissing him swiftly on the lips, his thin moustache tickling her.

"I know that this behavior is hardly _professional_," he said, speaking in English once more, clearly mocking the standards of public displays of affection, especially in the workplace. "But that's why I closed the door."

Christine laughed. "Oh, Raoul, whatever am I going to do with you? It most certainly will not do to have some sort of amateur comedian for my future husband."

"Ah, but of course not. I shall just have to turn professional then, will that be better?"

She laughed again, shaking her head, her eyes sparkling. "I'm afraid not, dearest. Besides, what would your mother think if you quit your steady job here and went off gallivanting about?"

He grinned. "'A most disgraceful state of affairs, indeed,'" he said, effecting his mother's rather high pitched voice that put Christine's nerves on edge. "'Most disgraceful; who would have thought it? We'll never live this down.'"

This sent her reeling into peals of light, hysterical laughter, and she had to hold tight to Raoul to keep from falling over. "You are ridiculous," she gasped. "I don't even know why I agreed to marry you in the first place."

"For that very reason, I believe," he replied. Once he was sure she was steady, he let her go, brushing her cheek tenderly with his fingers. "You should probably leave now, Christine; it won't do if I get fired because you were distracting me from my work."

"I…?" she raised an eyebrow. "Oh, that's rich. _You_ were the one who invited me here, Monsieur, remember?"

He feigned delayed comprehension. "Ah! So it was, so it was," he said, winking at her slyly. "I'll meet you for lunch."

"Do you promise?" asked Christine, her hand poised on the doorknob.

Raoul placed his left hand over his heart. "Upon my solemn vow of honor."

She smiled mischievously. "Oh, good." She paused, some of her gaiety noticeably fading away. "Wish me luck."

"And much more than luck," he replied with a gentle smile.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and with a lingering backward glance at her fiancé, she left the small office, crossing the threshold simultaneously into the corridor and into the future.

-----

"Ms. Daaé?" called one of the secretaries. "Mr. Brown will see you now."

Christine smiled at her as she went in; she was on a first name basis with the younger woman outside of work, but she knew that her position as junior secretary to the chairman mandated that she keep to formalities.

"Good luck," she whispered as Christine passed her desk and another employee opened the office door, showing Christine inside.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Daaé." The speaker sat in a large, rather high-backed chair, and he was facing the expansive window behind the desk instead of her.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Brown," she replied, trying to keep the waver she felt inside from manifesting in her voice, trying to suppress the feeling she had inside that made her simply want to curl up into a small ball and forget about this whole business altogether. "You…wished to see me?"

"Yes, indeed, I did," he replied, swiveling his chair around so that he might face her. She, having never actually seen the chairman before, had been expecting a man of considerable height and build, but in all reality the figure sitting at the desk seemed to have been positively swallowed whole by the enormous chair in which he sat, his round spectacles sitting precariously on the bridge of his large nose, made to seem even larger by the high forehead and receding hairline. "I'm sure you are no doubt aware of the decision I am making today."

She nodded slowly. "Yes, I am aware of the situation, Mr. Brown."

"So respectful, I love to see that in an employee," he remarked, and she flashed a small, hesitant smile, unsure whether or not she should have. "Tell me, Christine—might I call you Christine? Tell me, Christine: what do you enjoy most about your position here? I was examining your resume, and it is clearly evident that you could be working at a University; why with us?"

"When I was studying at university, I didn't appreciate the fact that faculty politics always got in the way of research; and, though I _could_ be working as an assistant or even an instructor, any research I might happen to conduct during my stay there would, I know, be not regarded as highly as, say, the research of a male colleague. I also would, no doubt, be mandated to teach, and, if I may be entirely frank with you, Mr. Brown, I detest public speaking."

Brown grinned. "That was very eloquent for someone who professes to not enjoying speaking publicly."

"Thank you, sir."

He sighed, leaning heavily against the back of his chair. "Ms. Daaé, are you aware of the position I currently find myself in?"

"Sir?"

He hesitated, trying to hide the fact by adjusting his glasses, but Christine found that the nervous movement only served to heighten her awareness of his anxiety. "Well, you were frank with me, so I suppose I can return the favor. Christine, I don't believe you are aware of how badly I want to assign you to this expedition."

Her eyes widened and she had to suppress her reactionary gasp. "I…I'm speechless," she confessed, rather breathless.

"However, there are obvious ramifications to consider when making this choice…"

There was a sudden sinking feeling in her middle, like her legs had completely disappeared and her stomach had fallen out of her—a feeling that was far from pleasant and something she knew that she never again wanted to experience. "I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Brown."

"Allow me to put it more plainly: if I assign you as the lead for this expedition, you, Ms. Daaé, _you_ would be the first woman in the long history of this private research firm to hold such a position." He picked up a pen from his desk and began fiddling with it nervously, her eyes watching him steadily, her face betraying a vague sense of disappointment, but nothing more. "Certainly you must understand that I—and the company—would be under intense scrutiny from the media and public eye."

If her exterior expression was relatively mild and ambiguous, inside, Christine was raging. How dare she not be granted this position because of her gender! This was exactly the thing she had been worried about from the start, and now for this man to fulfill her hopes and desires by letting her know how he was inclined to decide, and then tearing her elation and excitement to shreds only a few moments later, telling her what she had been putting up with ever since she had decided to attend university almost ten years previous… It made her want to scream and throw her hands up in pure and utter frustration.

She drew a deep breath quietly, hoping he would fail to notice. "Mr. Brown," she said. "If you appoint me to this expedition, I swear I will never allow for any chance of negative publicity or press. I will do everything within my power to make sure everything runs smoothly over there, and that once we return our findings will be processed, recorded, and published quickly and efficiently." She put her hands behind her back, crossing her fingers, hoping he would consider her plea.

He grinned. "That, Christine, was _exactly_ what I wanted to hear. Congratulations, Ms. Daaé, you've got yourself a team."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Brown, thank you _so much_," she exclaimed, unable to contain her enthusiasm and delight. He stood and she shook his hand vigorously. "I promise I won't disappoint you."

"I should hope not," he replied good-naturedly. "I'll have the papers on your desk by tomorrow morning, and before the week is out the rest of your team members should be assigned. You'll be off to New Guinea within the month."

"I look forward to it, sir. Again, thank you."

He inclined his head towards her with a slight smile, a sign that she could leave. "Take the rest of the day off, Ms. Daaé," he called after her. "I'd say you have earned it."

-----

The first place she headed once she left Brown was to go find Raoul to tell him the news, but he was not in his office, and her acquaintances in that particular department reported that he hadn't been seen since after the lunch break. Concerned, though too elated to think about the matter too intensely, she quickly returned to her joint office, only to find that Doctor Flynn was gone as well. Exceedingly puzzled, yet not letting it put a damper on her renewed spirits, she bolted to her desk, and picked up the receiver, dialing zero to reach the company's private switchboard.

"Hello, operator? Could you connect to this number, please? It's an outside line, yes." She bounced on the balls of her feet impatiently waiting to hear the ring on the other end of the line; it seemed to take longer to connect than usual, and by the time Meg picked up the phone in their shared apartment sounding a little sleepy and disoriented, Christine was about ready to burst.

"Meg!" she about shouted. "Meg, guess what! I got the position, Meg, I'm going to Papua!"


	4. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: This chapter pretty much sucks, I'm sorry... I just needed to get backstory and character introductions out of the way, so here both are in all their resplendent 'I'm-trying-to-write-a-book-in-a-month-and-am-currently-behind-schedule' glory._**

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Chapter Three 

A few days later found Christine waiting alone and impatiently at a table set for six in the private back room of one of the most expensive, high-quality restaurants in town; she had told Brown not to bother going to all the trouble of arranging such a lavish place to meet with her new team members, but he had said that the expense meant little in the way of the success of the expedition. Furthermore, he had said, she needed to be able to feel comfortable with all of the members not only on a professional basis—which she was, after surveying their individual papers—but on a personal one as well, considering all the time they would be spending together in the field. She was excited about the prospect of getting to meet these four newcomers—_four_, because one of the members chosen, to her surprise and delight, was her colleague and dear friend Doctor Robert Flynn—and yet a little daunted by the fact that she would be playing hostess and supervisor to five men. She wished for a familiar female presence, disappointed that Meg had been unable to make the luncheon because of her work schedule.

She took to pacing after a while, a nervous habit she had picked up from her father when she was much smaller; she remembered him pacing, murmuring frantically to himself as he struggled to compose new music to play on his violin. He had been an amateur musician, and some of her earliest and fondest memories had been of him performing for money on the street corners in Stockholm—and, eventually, Paris—while she danced and sang.

From such humble beginnings as these Christine had come, and she reflected sadly how proud her Father would be if he could see her now. He had always told her that she would go far in whatever field she so chose; for much of her life, she had believed she would follow in her father's footsteps and become a musician just like him, yet she had fallen in love with the sciences in school, and had ultimately decided to become a botanist instead.

She had always known it wouldn't be easy, but she persisted, attending the University of Paris and then transferring for further study to Cambridge. Next, she travelled to London, landing her current job at the esteemed scientific pioneering firm _Robertson & Brown_. And all through her struggles her father had been there for her, supported her, even when she had decided to leave Paris, the city in which she had spent most of her childhood.

Her student loans now paid off by being employed with such a well-known company, thus enjoying a rather hearty salary, she was free to do as she pleased, yet she found that she couldn't tear herself away from the historic English charm and allure of London. She found Paris to have the same sort of aura, the same kindred spirit as her sister in England, yet having grown up there—and now, having lost her father there—she preferred the call of London over the mystic City of Lights.

Entrenched deep in the fog of memories past, she didn't notice that the door had been opened by one of the restaurant staff and the three men who filed in after him.

"Christine, my dear," said a familiar voice, and she looked up from her steady pacing to see the smiling, familiar face of Doctor Flynn. "Long time no see, eh?" he joked, as she had only seen him in the office a few hours previous.

"Oh, I apologize, I didn't hear you gentlemen come in." She smiled at the two strangers in turn, discreetly scrutinizing their features.

The first one was quite tall, though well-built, wearing a white, starched collared shirt, tie, and slacks: common business attire. His eyes were a warm, rich brown that reminded Christine of a well-brewed pot of coffee, and his hair was an even darker brown than his eyes, nearly black. He smiled warmly and extended a hand to her; his grasp was firm and even. "Simon," he introduced himself. "Simon Sterling." He spoke in a baritone, his voice as smooth and rich as his steady glance. Christine felt a little weak-kneed.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Sterling, I look forward to working with you." She turned to the next man, standing a little behind Simon and off to the left. "And you are…?"

"Oliver, Ms. Daaé, Oliver Reese." He shook her hand warmly. "And let me just take a minute to say how honored I am to be working with you; Bobbie was telling us so much about you."

"Bobbie?" she asked, puzzled.

Doctor Flynn gave a pained little cough. "Me…Oliver has taken to calling me…that…"

"I thought it fitting, if you don't mind me saying so," replied Oliver, clapping Flynn warmly on the shoulder.

Christine smiled in spite of herself; she knew how much it annoyed the good Doctor to be called anything other than his given name. And even though she had known Flynn for far longer than the other man, she found that she didn't quite have the heart to spoil his fun. Oliver was shorter than Simon, more slender, and there was a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes that she found she quite liked. His ginger hair fell into his eyes such that he was constantly brushing it away, and a light dusting of freckles added character to his smaller-than-average nose that seemed a little lost in the open warmth of his face.

She smiled again, reflecting with a chuckle that if the other two men were as attractive as Simon and Oliver, poor Raoul would be terribly jealous.

Conversation flowed easy enough between the three men that she supposed they had become acquainted in the waiting area. Showing herself into a seat—not at the head of the table, she didn't think she'd be able to bear that quite yet, she merely sat and watched the three men interact, waiting for the two missing members of her team. She hoped that they hadn't managed to get themselves lost, especially the American that had been chosen, oh, what was his name…

The four already in the room looked towards the door as it opened to admit who could only be the final two.

Christine stood up with a sigh she believed to be inaudible, but Oliver angled his head in her direction, a miniscule movement, barely noticeable. She smiled at him, nonchalant about the incident, yet feeling a strange need to justify her weariness to herself all the same; he'd been on her feet the whole morning, didn't a girl deserve a little rest every now and again?

"Hello," she said, hand slightly outstretched as she made her way over to the two newcomers still standing rather awkwardly in the foyer; she noted in annoyance that the other three merely stood there, watching. Honestly, didn't they have any sense of decency at all, why weren't they introducing themselves? At least Doctor Flynn, she knew, should have come over and offered introductions…

Her mental deliberations and annoyances were cut short when she suddenly realized that the other three were merely deferring to her as leader, allowing her first inspection…

A strange sense of power and authority the likes of which Christine had never experienced before flooded her veins, intoxicating her. Oh, she was going to enjoy this job very much…

"Hello," she said again, reaching the pair. "I'm Christine Daaé, it's nice to meet you." She shook their hands in turn.

"Allow me to offer introductions: I'm Thomas Daughty, assistant Head of Botanical Studies at University of California, Berkeley, and this, I've come to learn," he paused, resting a hand on the other man's shoulder, "is Jonathon Perdue; I'm not sure of his affiliations since I've only just met him not five minutes ago, but he seems like a nice enough fellow." He leaned close to Christine, dropping his voice conspiratorially, yet intending it to be still loud enough for all to hear clearly: "A bit on the quite side, though, you'll have to watch out: it's the quiet ones who cause all the trouble invariably." He winked at her before pulling away.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, Mr. Daughty," she replied lightly, yet looking instead at the object of his teasing. At very first glance, she had almost thought that Raoul had come along—despite her invitation, which he graciously declined, complaining about how much work had managed to pile up. However, this Jonathon looked so much like her fiancé it was uncanny and a little unnerving: pale blonde hair, green eyes, moustache…only a few tweaks to his facial features, the size of his nose, the shape of his eyes, and they could be brothers, perhaps even twins. He was, however, quite a bit shorter than Raoul—almost at her height, it seemed—so after realizing this she was only off balance for a few moments.

Daughty, by far and large, was quite plain in appearance; which is probably why his personality almost seemed to reach out and shake her quite hard by the shoulders in compensation, a surprising mental image that made her crack a small smile. He alone was the only one out of all the team members who wore spectacles—aside from the good Doctor, who, in any case, only used them for reading anyway. He looked to be in his late thirties, and had extremely dark hair that was streaked with gray and all sorts of other muted undertones that she supposed could only be natural; medium height and build, a rather plain face that whispered of classical features, yet not quite manifesting themselves fully. The only thing that caught her attention about his appearance was his cowboy hat and boots that he was sporting, seemingly straight out of a Western.

She made her way back to the table, waiting for the rest to finish introductions and come to seat themselves; she, however, remained standing.

"Gents," said Christine, simultaneously spotting a waiter coming to no doubt take their orders "it is my sincere privilege to be working with such an outstanding group as yourselves. Now, let's allow this fine man to take our orders for lunch, and we can finally get down to business."


	5. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I apologize profusely for any grammatical errors; I usually read it over multiple times, but I'm afraid if I do that I'll be tempted to edit... I'm still terribly behind, huzzah. Anyway, enjoy._

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Four**

"Oh, Christine," mock-sighed Meg, clinging to her friend wildly, shaking with repressed laughter. "Oh, Christine, don't leave me; what ever shall I do without you?"

Christine grinned, patting Meg awkwardly on the back as she made eye contact with Raoul, obviously trying his best not to burst out laughing. She rolled her eyes at the both of them, heaving an exasperated sigh. "I'll be back in two months, Meg, I've been gone for much longer before."

"But never to such a remote locale! What if you get eaten? Kidnapped by savages? Abducted by aliens?! Who will pay the rent, then, hmm? I'll be homeless! Would you put me out on the street so easily?"

Christine laughed outright, blushing a little because of all the attention Meg was generating from the rest of her team and other bystanders in the terminal. "Meg, get up. I know you're proud that you're in theater, but honestly…"

Meg gave her a mischievous grin, one that Christine was by now very accustomed to seeing light up the face and eyes of her friend and roommate. "That was rather good, wasn't it? I should have put a cap on the ground or something, could have earned some extra income, seeing as I'll truly be a starving artist soon." She surveyed the crowd, whispering conspiratorially, "How do you think they'd take to me dancing, eh, Christine? If I would have known, I would have brought my Pointe shoes."

"Oh, you're hopeless," she laughed, turning to Raoul. "You put her up to this, didn't you?"

He held his hands in front of him, looking a little sheepish, but only for show. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."

She smiled widely, pulling him close and kissing him, ending up lingering quite a bit longer at his lips than she had originally intended. He held her close.

"Be safe, Christine," he whispered in French, his lips brushing against the top of her head.

"I will, I promise," she replied in English. "The two months will be gone before you know it, you'll see."

He nodded, letting her go, albeit reluctantly. "I know." He gestured towards her crew, waiting at the terminal gates. "You should go."

She swallowed the unanticipated sob building in her throat, vowing to herself in her head that she would _not_ cry, not here, not now. "Right," she said, shouldering her pack and taking a few steps forward.

"_Au revoir_," called Meg; Christine turned around, only to find her friend waving a handkerchief—where on _earth_ had she gotten a handkerchief?—at her.

"Terminal Six, your plane is now boarding," a cool, female voice called out over the intercom, echoing through the small airport structure.

Christine suddenly stopped in her tracks; before her, her colleagues stepped through the gate escorted by a security guard. Behind her, she knew, stood her best friend and her fiancé, watching her back as the distance between her and pair of them gradually grew with each hesitant step.

She took a deep breath, wanting to turn around, a queer feeling, weighing down her stomach, like lead; who knew when the next time she would truly see them would be, if ever? She knew Meg's earlier comments had been in jest, but what if…

Finally making it to the gate, she caught Oliver's glance; he was bringing up the rear, half-heartedly shuffling along very much like she was. As she hesitated to walk through the gate, he approached her.

"Second thoughts?" he asked under his breath.

"Not quite so much as agitation over not being sure when I'll see them next," she confessed. Christine wasn't sure what it was about Oliver that always made her want to bear her soul to him, but she found that he was the easiest to talk to out of all of the members of her team.

He nodded sagely, a grave sobriety punctuating his features for once. "Technically, you haven't stepped through the gates yet…"

This was true; Christine was quite literally perched almost in the exact middle of the gateway, not quite in it, but not quite through it, either. Confused, she looked to him, her eyes asking what exactly he meant.

In silent reply, he nodded again, extending a hand; her eyes immediately lit up as she handed him her pack, flying back to two of her closest, most dear friends, embracing them both in one last goodbye.

After all, when it came to life and regret, there were no second chances.

-----

"You all right?"

Christine looked up from her book, the loud hum of the propellers as they hurtled through the air sounding in her ears. "I'm fine, Oliver, thank you."

Thomas turned around in his seat, cocking his head to the side, his cowboy hat shifting a little, as it was too big for him. "You don't look it."

"First plane trip," she explained, her mouth dry. She licked her lips and lowered her eyes to her book again; she needed to focus on something else other than the unsettling fact that they were currently hundreds of feet in the air over the open ocean.

"Ah, I see," said Oliver, warming up to the subject. He took the empty seat next to his team leader, smiling broadly. "Did I ever tell you gents about _my_ first plane trip?"

Christine saw faces as the rest of her team and a few other minor members of the expedition turned to look at them in interest. She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms and clearing her throat, looking pointedly at Oliver.

"Oh… and lady," he amended.

"Much better," she replied, smiling at him.

"Well, my first trip was about ten years ago; I was only twenty at the time," he began his story, his eyes coming to life, expressive in their hazel depths. Not more than a dozen or so words had come out of his mouth, yet she already found herself entranced.

"I was with my father, and he was scheduled to do a routine fly over a vacant field for a training exercise; he was contracted to the military at the time, and he knew I was interested, so took me along with him.

"Things were going swell for the first fifteen minutes up in the air; I had never felt so free in my life, to tell you the truth, and we just kept climbing higher and higher and higher; I felt so dizzy with excitement that I thought I would positively burst at the seams."

"But that wasn't it, was it," interrupted Doctor Flynn. "You were losing oxygen."

"Ah, that's the rub, as the Bard would say, Bobbie," continued Oliver, ignoring Flynn's wince at the name the younger man had taken to calling him, though out of affection or annoyance he could never be sure. "Yes, indeed: we were losing oxygen."

"What happened?" asked Simon, his baritone voice slicing through some side conversations and the hum of the plane easily enough.

Oliver waved him off impatiently, though obviously in jest. "I'm getting there, I'm getting there. Really, Simon, you have got about as much patience as a three year old."

There were collective chuckles and Simon straightened up in his seat. "I hope you are aware," he said primly, though a glint very much akin to Oliver's entered his eyes, "that this now means _war_."

"Ooh, Thomas is shaking in his ridiculous boots," he quipped back, which garnered another round of laughter.

"Now, boys," chided Christine with a smile. "Play nice…"

"Yes, Mother," said Flynn with a smirk.

"All right, all right! Doesn't anyone want me to finish my story?" Oliver struggled to regain the attention he once held, finally recapturing his audience after a few moments of scattered conversation and laughter.

"Finish it, then," murmured Jonathon, sitting back in his seat, his arms crossed in front of his chest; Christine noticed that he seemed to not be in the best of spirits. Perhaps the plane was getting to him as well.

"Excellent suggestion, my man, thanks very much." Oliver grinned at Jonathon as he sat up straighter, his green eyes quite wide; he obviously had not expected anyone to hear him.

"Well, as it turns out, we lost _so_ much oxygen, that…"

Christine leaned forward in her seat, her nerves on edge. She reflected idly that with his charisma and personality he would have made an excellent actor; perhaps she might introduce him to Meg…

"…That?" was the general response.

"The pilot wasn't wearing his mask, so he passed out. All of a sudden, we felt a shift in direction, and we began to fall, tail spinning out of control, hurtling faster and faster and faster towards the ground. We panicked, tried getting the doors open so we could jump out with our parachutes before impact, but they were jammed. The whole scenario seemed ridiculous, like it was straight out of the pictures; everything seemed to be moving so slowly, even though I heard the voice of my physics professor from university screaming in the back of my head that if we were in a vacuum, we would, in all actuality, be falling at a terminal velocity of negative nine-point-eight meters per second, squared…"

There were a few chuckles at that, but Christine was positively bursting in anticipation. Her eyes were wide. "What happened next, Oliver?"

He nodded towards her. "Glad you should ask that. A storyteller always likes it when his audience gets involved; less work on his part. Now, where was I? Ah, yes: we were all about to die in a fiery inferno of twisted metal and petrol…

"We dropped from the sky, hurtling to the ground; frankly, I was surprised that we hadn't made impact yet. I made the mistake of peering out the window. I saw the ground coming closer and closer to us, knowing our death was quite inevitable and inescapable.

"I fell to my knees and prayed to our good Lord for forgiveness of whatever it was that I had done to get me into such a mess; who knew, perhaps it was a sin to listen to your mad father, I don't know. But, naturally, I couldn't take any chances with this sort of thing. After I was done, my old man approached me, and with tears in his eyes, he grasped me firmly by the shoulders and said to me…

"Wake up and get your arse out of that bed."

There were sighs and chuckles of relief at this most eminent conclusion of Oliver's story—well, technically speaking, his dream.

"You are unbelievable," Christine gasped through peals of laughter.

Oliver stood and bowed, sweeping Thomas' hat from his head and placing it over his own heart. "At your service."

She shook her head, tucking a lock of hair that had escaped the pony holder she had tied the blonde length back with behind her ear. "It seems we've found ourselves some proper entertainment, then; not that it's likely to be boring in the rainforest, but on the off chance that it is, then I know just who to turn to."

Christine waited until the rest of the occupants in the plane settled down and returned to their individual pursuits before leaning over towards Oliver—who still sat beside her—and murmuring, "I would appreciate it if you go and talk to Jonathon; he seems a bit unsettled."

"All right, my fearless leader," he joked quietly, but then his countenance became serious. "What about you? Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine, really," she replied, picking up her book again, holding it in her lap as she waited for him to leave before starting to read.

He nodded, then, a little reluctantly, it seemed, he stood.

"Oh, and, Oliver?"

He turned to look at her, his notorious ginger bangs obscuring his vision at the sudden turn of his head. He swept them back impatiently, and she cracked a smile of amusement.

"Thank you."

-----

Later, when most of the crew was sprawled out in their chairs, blankets draped over them sloppily as they slept, Christine approached Doctor Flynn, as he was also awake.

"I had no idea you stayed up so late, Doctor," she remarked.

He looked up from his book, regarding her with a touch of surprise through his reading spectacles. "I would say the same of you, my dear. Unfortunately, this staying up late business is not my usual habit, but I find it impossible to get any sleep on this abominable contraption, no matter how useful it may be for travel."

She nodded, sighing, looking a little weary in the good Doctor's eyes. "May I?" she asked politely, indicating the vacant seat next to him.

"Of course, Christine," he replied immediately, removing his coat from the seat and hanging it on the seat in front of him instead.

Gratefully, she sunk down into the chair. "Thank you."

"You needn't have asked, my dear. Tell me…what is troubling you? You look upset."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to trouble you with it, Doctor, it's a trivial matter; I'd feel silly."

"No matters, however small or unreasonable in one's eyes, are to be considered trivial, Christine. At least, that's what I think."

She flashed him a small smile, then leaned against the back of the chair, looking at the ceiling, listening to the continuous noise of the propellers of their aircraft. "I don't know…"

"Well, Christine, I just want to make you aware—again—that I am here if you need someone to listen. I know this is tough for you—"

"That's just it, Doctor; I'm _not_ finding it difficult. On the contrary, everything seems too…easy now, something which surpasses my wildest dreams about the success of this whole thing, but I fear it has lost interest in dreams altogether and now allies itself with my nightmares. It worries me. I have a hundred different scenarios bouncing around in my head of things that could go horribly, horribly wrong."

He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Believe it or not, Christine, it is completely natural to be thinking that way. However," he continued, place distinct emphasis on the word when he saw that she opened her mouth to interrupt—most likely to disagree, if he knew her at all. "However, while there are definite dangers—there are dangers all around us every day, if you stop and think about it—I very much doubt that anything remotely catastrophic will befall us."

"You think so?" she asked, conflicted, wanting to believe him, doubts plaguing her.

"Indeed I do. Don't worry about it Christine; everything will go smoothly. You'll see."

"I hope so," she murmured, staring at the ceiling again, slumping in her chair.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Christine felt extremely frazzled, her fingers still numb from gripping the arms of the seat; she respected the pilot for handling the rough landing so professionally and efficiently, but it would take a while for her to regain her stomach, as it had completely fled her in the duration of the admittedly only bad part of the flight.

The first thing that hit her after her reflections on the landing was how utterly humid the weather was, even though it was almost midnight. The atmosphere seemed to press down and smother them like a giant blanket; she found it difficult to breathe properly.

She stood still, just taking in the warmth after the chill of the cabin, still trying to regain her nerves. Suddenly, she felt a slight pressure on her shoulder, and she turned around to see Simon.

"Are you all right? Feeling well?" The friendly concern was evident, shining in his large brown eyes that so captivated her.

"I'm still a little shaken from the landing," she confessed.

He nodded. "Yes, I think we all are."

"Thank you for your concern, Simon, I greatly appreciate it."

"No problem at all," he replied, and walked over to the pile of cargo waiting to be loaded on the truck that had pulled up not but five minutes previous.

Christine herself was about to head over to help load when she noticed a tall figure in some sort of uniform heading towards her down the landing strip. Curious, she waited.

"Miss Daaé?" the figure called out to her as he came closer, his voice a rich contrabass.

"Yes, that's me."

He finally reached her, his face showing in the half-light of the flares on the otherwise dark landing strip. "Colonel Wright, at your service; I'm here to escort you and your team to headquarters."

"Oh!" She furrowed her brow slightly, confused. An escort? She hadn't been briefed about an escort. "Well, Colonel, I…appreciate your efforts. However, I was not aware that we would require an escort… Please pardon me saying so, but it doesn't quite make sense in my mind, considering this isn't a government-funded study."

"This is indeed an unusual circumstance, I assure you, Miss Daaé. Allow me to suggest to you, however, to allow myself and my men to escort you and your team, as it is the safest option at the moment, considering the circumstances."

"'Safest option'?" she repeated, her eyebrows slowly creeping up her forehead. "Why, what's happened?"

"I promise you I will explain everything once we arrive at our destination, as this isn't the best place to be having this conversation, if you get my drift."

"Of course, Colonel," she replied, and they walked together to the truck, nearly all of the supplies loaded and ready to go, completely unaware of the burning eyes that almost seemed to glow of their own volition, watching their every move from the cover of the trees several meters away.

-----

The ride from the makeshift and largely military inhabited airport was relatively uneventful, and nothing out of the ordinary beset the two-vehicle caravan as they traversed the unpaved road the three miles to the military outpost.

However, when she first approached with the Colonel, and when the other truck had appeared from the far end of the air field, she had received several puzzled and suspicious looks from her colleagues. She introduced the colonel to her men, but when he left to confer with his, she shrugged her shoulders and shook her head in confusion.

"What's all this about?" demanded Thomas, fiddling with his tell tale cowboy hat, as he always did when he was nervous or agitated, she noticed.

"Military escort. I have no idea what's going on, Wright told me he'd explain everything when we get to the outpost."

"An escort? Preposterous," said Oliver, and behind him Jonathon nodded vigorously. She noticed that ever since she had sent Oliver over to go talk to the quieter, more subdued man, Jonathon had taken to following his more outgoing counterpart a little like a puppy. "What in the bloody hell—" he paused, coughing, looking at Christine a little sheepishly. "I mean… what do we need an escort for?"

"Again, don't ask me, I have no idea. He said something about it being the best thing for our safety."

Simon, Thomas, and Jonathon all exchanged a rather dark glance, but Oliver, carefree as always, laughed outright. "And they expect us to believe we'll be safer with them? They're armed, for God's sake, they could kill us all right now, and no one would ever know."

Doctor Flynn waved Oliver's comment aside impatiently. "That's the furthest thing from my mind, and I very much doubt that you'll need to even expend energy thinking about any such thing happening."

"Then, what's wrong, Doctor?" asked Christine; she had rarely seen him this agitated before.

"It's this whole business of a military escort. Be that as it may that they are offering the protection of the Crown, the government shouldn't be messing in things like this."

"Then, doesn't that mean the threat is serious? If they should not even be getting involved…" mused Christine aloud.

"Or the government wants a stake in this; Papua is a colony, yes, but ours is one of the first purely scientific ventures into this area. They know what ever we find will be invaluable."

"So the Queen wants a slice of the pie, then, does she?" said Thomas. "I'll be damned…"

"Are we ready?" asked the Colonel, approaching the group once more. He began to say something else, but the roar of the plane as it started up again drowned out all other sound. They waved at the minor staff that had accompanied them on their flight as the plane turned slowly around and finally started off down the way it had come, gaining speed, and then, finally, altitude as it took off.

Christine sighed, watching the lights of the plane that would take her back to London, the plane she would not see for two months, or quite possibly, not see ever again. Shaking herself from her reverie, she turned to the Colonel. "Lead on, if you please, Colonel."

He nodded, saluted, then climbed into the bed of the military truck, Christine doing the same, only in the unmarked truck that carried their precious supplies that they would have to depend on for the next two months, and the rest of her team.

-----

By the time the military buildings were within sight, Christine's bottom was terribly sore from bouncing around, largely unsecured, in the large bed of the truck. She supposed she should be thankful that the entire thing had not been empty instead of how loaded down with supplies as it currently was; she would have most assuredly fallen out.

Plus, the rest of her team was in a similar condition, so it didn't bother her as much as it would have if she had been the only one subjected to such pain.

The trucks pulled into the middle of the compound after passing through the gates, and Christine jumped out of the truck bed just in time to see the gates close firmly behind them, the soldiers looking stoic, almost annoyed.

"Will we need to unload, Colonel?" she asked, seeing the man disembark from the bed of the first truck.

"No, that won't be necessary. Right now, I would prefer to speak to you in my office about the present situation…"

"Uh, excuse me," piped up Oliver, surprising Christine immensely. She spun around to motion for him to be quiet, that she could handle it, but he continued, "I think it would be preferred if you could speak to _all_ of us in that office of yours, chap. I know I've got questions, and so do the rest of my colleagues."

The Colonel glared at Oliver, looking positively menacing for a moment, before returning his gaze to Christine. "Miss Daaé?"

"At your discretion, Colonel, but I have to agree with Oliver; each member of my team serves his own unique purpose, yet we function as a collective unit, so I would hate to deprive them of the information. Besides, it would be so tiresome to have to repeat everything to them, when I could just have you tell us all at the same time," she replied politely yet firmly, earning a collective grin of approval from her men, though she couldn't see.

He sighed impatiently. "Very well, very well. Follow me, then…"

Christine paused for a moment to let the rest of her party catch up, then they set out after the officer together. They did not speak, but she could practically feel the newly acquired respect pouring from them onto her. She smiled, definitely pleased with herself.

Colonel Wright's office space was rather smaller than he had led them to believe, so, consequently, while Christine sat in the stiff-backed and decidedly uncomfortable chair before the Colonel's writing desk, the five other men had to squeeze into the office, standing against the wall, nearly surrounding Christine on all sides like a unit of body guards.

"Now," she said, once introductions had been taken care of, "what do you mean by all of this, Colonel? Why is our stay at this compound necessary, and why did we need to be escorted?"

"As I was saying earlier, both are precautions for your safety, and the safety of your team."

"What is the threat?"

The Colonel paused, almost seeming to shudder. "The…natives, Miss Daaé."

"What about them?" asked Simon, intrigued, before Christine could get the chance.

The military man shot him a despairing glance before answering, "I'm sure you are aware of the…practices of some of the tribes on this island?"

"Which ones?" inquired Christine. "I'm not an anthropologist, my specialty is botany, but I tried finding out as much as I could by researching some of the literature before we left."

"Miss Daaé…the people here…practice _cannibalism_," pronounced the Colonel in a hoarse whisper.

"A fascinating phenomenon indeed," replied the Doctor, but the rest of the men did not seem to agree with him on this aspect; Jonathon turned distinctly pale, and Simon and Oliver exchanged glances while Thomas took his hat completely from his head, and held it in his hands, which kept clenching in and out on the brim of the leather hat.

"I am aware of this practice, yes. But it is purely ritualistic, what does it have to do with myself and my team being in danger?"

"Now, I don't know where you got your information, and I don't profess to be any sort of scientist—far from it, believe me, I hated the subject in school—but if it's just a ritual thing, then they must do this ritual quite often… I've already lost four men to the night watch; the tribe that occupies this area hunts at night, which is the reason for your escort earlier."

"What else can you tell us about the people in this area, then? What will we need to know if we encounter them, are they peaceful unless provoked, what?" demanded Christine, her heartbeat noticeably quickening; she hadn't bargained on this.

"Slow down, Miss," replied Colonel Wright, putting his hands up defensively. "This compound is relatively new, only established a little more than a year ago… we don't know much about the people, only that those that have seen _them_ have consequently never been seen again."

She had been expecting Oliver to laugh at this last sentence, but no laugh came; in fact, the office was completely silent, her heartbeat sounding off loud and clear in her ears.

"On whose orders are you acting on?" she inquired at last, breaking the silence which had become overwhelming and unbearable to her; still, she could her heart, and she was reminded of that most famous, gruesome story of Poe's.

The Colonel colored a little, looking down at his desk before meeting her gaze once again. "No orders, Miss. As the leading officer stationed here, though, I _do_ have a bit of liberty…"

She stood, exceedingly grateful for this act that she had once considered to be intrusive and suspicious. Behind her, she could sense the unspoken gratitude emanating from her team. "Thank you, Colonel, thank you very much," she said, shaking his hand vigorously.

"Of course. Also, because of the threat, you have been granted clearance to stay here at night for the duration of your study; we can also provide you a few men to serve as an escort during the day, if you'd like."

"No, the lodging will be enough, thank you."

"Are you sure, Christine?" murmured Flynn.

She nodded, looking at him. "Yes, Doctor I'm sure…I honestly don't think we'll need an escort."

Colonel Wright nodded. "Very well." He stood. "Now, allow me to show you to the barracks you will be staying in; they're outfitted with electricity and running water, just make sure you keep the windows closed, as the mosquitoes are especially fierce…"

-----

"Hey…you all right?"

It was Christine's turn to ask this question of a quieter than was normal Oliver. He looked up at her from where he sat on his cot, smiling feebly. "Yeah, I'll be okay. Just a little shaken…"

She nodded. "I am too, believe me," she whispered as the rest of the members of the party were sound asleep.

"You do a better job at not showing it, fearless leader."

"I guess a woman's good for something, eh?" she joked, a remark that triggered something in her memory. "Oh, Oliver?"

"Hmm?"

"You didn't have to correct yourself earlier, when you said 'bloody hell'… I don't care what language you use around me, really."

He grinned. "Sorry… just the way I was raised."

"I understand. Just saying…"

"Thanks, Christine." He nodded towards the area that had been portioned off in the farthest corner for her personal sleeping space. "Get some sleep; you have a big day tomorrow."

"_We_ have a big day tomorrow," she corrected. "We're a team, remember?"

"So we are. Well… goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Oliver. Pleasant dreams," she replied, and then made her way over to her cot, turning off the small lamp, pitching the room into blackness.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"My lord?"

He was silhouetted against the new light from the sun, his back to the darkness of the forest, where the one who had called him was still standing. He stood still, letting the breeze wash across his face, purging the night's oppressiveness and inextricable dominion, ignoring the searcher whose voice he knew well. He flicked his eyes down to his feet, travelling a mere few steps to the empty chasm beyond, and, even further than that, the roar of the sea.

The sea… he'd always been intrigued with it, before… but now it was his companion, someone whom he could talk to, could rage at, and who would understand, could comprehend the pain, the rage that sprung from the very depths of his soul, answering when he needed it in the form of the crashing of the waves or the piercing call of the seabirds, staying calm and passive at other times, listening.

"…My lord?"

He sighed, deciding to finally acknowledge him. "What is it, Wipu?"

The significantly smaller figure stepped from the trees, stark naked except for his ceremonial body paint, as opposed to the much taller and fully robed man he had been searching out. He stood beside the other man on the cliff, starting out at the sea in silence, until, "This is the fourth time this week, Senatu."

"I am aware of that."

"Usually the Sea does not call to you so fiercely… what is wrong?"

"That is what I am trying to figure out, Wipu." He paused, bringing a skeleton finger to his equally skeleton face thoughtfully. "Tell me something, oh priest of mine… what did you feel when you knew that Laon would die?"

He did not have to be looking at his companion to know that his face darkened. "That is not the most favored of subjects to be speaking of, my lord. You know the spirits are angered when you speak and have no reverence."

"I realize that. But I never said I would be irreverent; how could I be? He served me well in life."

Wipu gave him a thin smile before regaining his stoic composure, as was proper for him as a priest and consequent go-between between the world of mortals and the world of spirits, to wear at all times. He couldn't help but let his guard down around this much taller, much more interesting being; aside from being his servant, Wipu also envisioned himself as the other's closest friend and advisor, a view not discouraged once in the ten yearly cycles they had known each other.

"Well, I suppose that _is_ permissible, Senatu, considering the circumstances." He paused, gathering his thoughts, his face scrunching up slightly as it always did when he was sorting things out, or in the few moments just before gaining pure meditation. "A sense of foreboding," he said flatly, dark eyes fixed straight ahead, devouring the waves and the comingled blue of sky and sea. "A sense of gain, yet loss… Everything felt rather stagnant, helpless, yet I had to put on a face for the people, denying myself the truth…"

His companion nodded. "Exactly."

"How long have you been feeling this way, Senatu?" said Wipu quietly.

The other did not answer.

"Senatu? My lord?"

Still no response.

Wipu looked around him furtively, his sharp eyes picking through the shadows behind the pair of them, ascertaining to himself that they were truly alone. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, using a name that only left his lips when shock factor was needed: "Erik?"

The syllables had barely left Wipu's lips when the other man whipped his ghastly head around to look at him, his eyes burning. "I have told you not use that name, Wipualo," he hissed.

"Indeed you have, my lord," replied the other man nonchalantly, barely flinching in the wake of the other's impending wrath. "You were not responding."

"Must you wound me so deeply?" he murmured, staring out at the sea again. "You know how much pain that name is associated with. Erik is dead; Senatu lives in his place."

"That is impossible," scoffed Wipu; he loved these sorts of conversations with his master above all others, though the potential for violent emotions ran high, which, he supposed must be part of the allure. "A man cannot partition himself into separate entities; he is whole, comprised of several at the same time… or he is nothing at all, just a mere shadow."

"But I am not a man."

Wipu sighed; he had heard this argument before. "You _are_ a man, my lord. You intercede for the common people with the deities, just as I intercede between the people and you, the intercessor. The relationships are endless, a cycle, and all men are intertwined with each other. You are a man—divinely ordained, yes, but still a man."

"I'll prove you wrong one of these days, Wipu. You are far too logical for your own good, I fear it ruins you."

Wipu chuckled. "Because I am better at it than you, do you mean?"

"If you weren't my high priest, I'd have you killed," he replied.

He laughed outright this time. "I highly doubt that, my lord. You have a good heart, despite your fearsome exterior."

"How do you even know I _have_ a heart, hmm?" He was more amused than anything else by this point, his formidable temper cooled for the moment.

"Because, my lord, I have heard its drum beat from within you. And all men have hearts; for without one, they have no means of connecting with the rest of the world, sentenced to eternal unrest in the land of spirits. And you _are_ indeed a man, my lord, and I shall prove it," he continued when he saw his companion open his mouth to rebut. "For example: is not the reason you have sanctioned this hunt nothing but lust for the woman?"

His marvelous, deep-set, miraculously golden eyes burned again, and he became fiercer than ever, the fullest extent of his rage held at bay by only a paper-thin sheath of self-control and an affinity for the offender. "No," he replied through clenched teeth. In all actuality, though, his body burned for her, for the woman he had seen near the military compound the night before, the reason for his increased confliction and torment that had led him again to this very spot; never before had he ever seen a creature more beautiful, never before had he wanted another human so fiercely. He could not explain it.

Wipu smirked, his dark eyes now scrutinizing the visible changes in his master, the way his eyes grew distant… and, much more noticeable, the sudden prominence of his malehood outlined against his dark raiment, among other things. "Your body is betraying you," he remarked, trying to keep a straight face and failing.

He clenched his hands into fists. "Goddammit," he growled in his native language, as there was no equivalent in the language of his adopted people. Wipu, however, was by now well enough acquainted with this word to know that his master was not in the best of spirits.

"You know that any woman in the village would gladly have you," said Wipu quietly, broaching the subject as delicately as he could, not quite comprehending of his master's aversion to coupling, which he had observed over the years. "They would consider it the highest of honors."

"I couldn't bring myself to do that, as I have told you time and time again," the skeletal man replied, and he slumped a little, depressed.

"I just don't understand—"

"Never mind, I don't want to talk about it anymore." And that was that.

Wipualo sighed. "Very well."

"I don't believe you ever told me for what reason you had come looking for me."

"A matter not of immediate importance, though your member seems to think otherwise," he said slyly. The other man scowled, and he continued, "The hunting party needs your blessing to embark."

"Of course…" He glanced once more at the sea before turning around and heading into the forest, Wipu at his side, keeping up every step of the way despite his much shorter legs. "Did they want a bloodletting as well?"

"They might, although I know it makes you nauseous…"

"How considerate of you," came the slightly sarcastic reply, another phenomenon, like swearing, that Wipu had not been exposed to until he began serving his master. "I don't care as long as she's unharmed."

"So this _is_ about her," said Wipu a tad triumphantly.

Again, there was no response.

After they had traversed most of the trail back to the village in silence, Wipu finally asked, "What shall I tell them, my lord?"

"They can do whatever they want to the men," he said quietly, menacingly. "Just bring her back alive and unharmed. She is mine."


	8. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: After a very, very long hiatus, I'm back in business with this, as this idea was far too compelling to not continue. Anyway, enjoy, and please review._

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Oh, that's mine," said Christine to Oliver, who was currently holding up a large-brimmed, khaki hat and waving it around their quarters, trying to figure out to whom it belonged.

"Is it?" he asked, a grin crossing his face, still dangling it in the air.

She stood, trying to grab it from him for a moment, giving up when he reached his arm all the way up and stood on the tips of his toes, deliberately keeping it out of her reach. "Not fair, Oliver."

"God, what are you, Oliver? Two?" asked Simon, approaching and wresting the hat easily from him, handing it to Christine. "Here you are."

She smiled widely. "I'm glad _someone_ around here has manners, thank you, Simon." He nodded and went back to readying his knapsack, as all the rest were; Christine had been the first one up, however, so she was already done. "Don't you have packing to do, Mr. Reese?" she continued, using her most aloof voice and his last name when addressing him, fully aware of how much it would bother him.

He winced. "Sorry, Christine, just having a spot of fun, is all."

"I know. Besides," she said, fitting the hat on her head, tucking her length of blonde hair underneath, "if Simon hadn't intervened, I would have just tackled you for it."

He grinned widely, looking at her; there were a few snickers from the other men in her party as she realized the full implications of what she had just said and what he had just thought of to illicit such a grin.

"Oliver!" she gasped. She punched him in the shoulder quite hard. "I can't believe you…" She sighed, shaking her head, retreating to her cot. "Men!" she murmured loudly, exasperated, fully intending for the rest of her team to hear her.

--

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Wipu?"

He looked at her in the darkness and solitude of the large hut. "I said nothing of the sort, Adua. In fact, I do not like any of this at all."

The young woman paused in her flitting around him, making sure the painted symbols on his skin and the position of his headdress were exact. "Then why do it?"

Wipu sighed. "Senatu insists."

"Of course."

He thought he detected a touch of bitterness in her voice, the way she had said those few words. "Adua? What's wrong?"

She bent her head, electing to look at the ground rather than into his eyes. "I know we are supposed to obey his wishes, but…"

He nodded. "I know."

"It just doesn't seem right to me. How can he just do something like that? Arbitrarily and all?"

Wipu fidgeted slightly, catching her attention. "What is it?" she asked.

"Well… it's not… _arbitrary_…"

Adua furrowed her brow in confusion. "I don't understand."

He paused, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to give her the real reason behind this unorthodox hunt. "Adua," he began, placing his hand gently against the very slight bulge beneath her tunic—she was pregnant. "Adua, you know I don't like to keep secrets from you."

She nodded in affirmation. "Nor I you."

He sighed. "This time, though, I have to."

She pulled away from him, not impressed. "It probably has to do with that woman you two were talking about last night, the one he saw."

He spoke without thinking, defending his master and friend from her derisive attitude. "Senatu needs to find a mate eventually…"

She smiled in triumph, watching Wipu's expression change from one of grudging sympathy to shock as he realized what he had just said. "I was right," she stated with a decidedly smug expression; it faded after only a few seconds, however. "What is he thinking? He can't simply make her his mate by kidnapping her, she has to consent. He of all people should know that."

"Adua, you've never tried talking sense into someone… like… him…"

"Maybe I should, then," she replied. "Hasn't he ever heard of self-control?"

"Indeed I have, Adua," came a voice from the entranceway. "Hearing and practicing are two entirely different things, however."

"Senatu!" cried Wipu and Adua in unison, she turning around to look at the much taller man approaching them.

"Hello, my dear," he replied, addressing her directly, courteous as always, yet with a definite edge. Subconsciously, it seemed, almost as if from instinct Wipu took the smallest of steps towards her, intent on shielding her.

"That won't be necessary, my friend, I wouldn't harm her, you know that," said Senatu, his catlike eyes catching the movement.

Wipu colored slightly, abashed, bowing his head as Adua looked at him a little scornfully. She took a few steps toward her master, boldly looking him in the eyes. "Senatu, if I might speak."

He nodded slightly, intrigued. "Go on."

"This is unwise. You know that, I know that, even Wipu knows it, no matter how devoted he is to you." She spoke with a wry smile gracing her petite lips. "We don't hunt during the day; what if this upsets the Balance?"

The taller man, having been prepared to hear a lecture about the fair-haired woman he had seen the night before, was caught by surprise at this sudden turn of events. He pursed his thin lips for a moment, thinking intently, his eyes far away.

"Master, I fear for you. I fear for the people. This will not end well."

"And if it does?" he asked quietly, humbled.

"What?" said Adua.

"If it does end well?"

She paused, looking to Wipu for wisdom; she was only an apprentice, after all. But becoming exasperated when he merely shook his head, baffled, she replied, "Then so be it. We won't know that until the time comes, however."

The man nodded, still deep in thought. "How very insightful you are, Adua. You will make a wonderful priestess."

She beamed, flattered by the genuine compliment. "Thank you, Senatu."

He rewarded her with a small, rare smile before shaking his head, chasing away the thoughts. He looked at Wipu. "It's time," he pronounced quietly.

Wipu nodded. "Of course." He cast a lingering glance at Adua before following the taller man out of the hut.

"Master."

He stopped, nearly outside, turning his skeletal face to look at her, such that the only thing she could see clearly were his golden eyes, the rest cast in shadow, in darkness.

"Be patient with her."

He said nothing in reply, but with a flourish of his ceremonial cloak, continued on his way outside, Wipu following close behind.

Adua sighed, making the customary gesture with her fingers over her forehead. "Great Rishka," she breathed, barely able to hear herself over the sudden pounding of the drums and the wild cries of the men as they prepared for the hunt. "O Mother Goddess… please… please let him be right. For all our sakes."

--

Christine jumped out of the truck, breathing in the moist air, gazing in wonder at the vast expanse of green that stretched far beyond the road, exhilarated. Soon, very, very soon, she and her team would be exploring that amazing place, and she couldn't be more pleased.

"And you're sure about the escort, Miss Daaé?"

She wrenched her eyes away from the forest to regard the good Colonel. "I'm sure, thank you. You've been very kind, and I appreciate it."

The man nodded. "Of course, Miss Daaé, my pleasure." The man driving the truck turned the ignition, and the engine roared back to life as the last member of her crew disembarked from the bed. "We'll see you here at sundown, then." He nodded at each man in turn before signaling to the driver, who continued on down the road, a cloud of dust following in their wake.

Christine sighed heavily, happy to have the oppressive weight of the military presence bearing down upon her lifted; though the Colonel was courteous enough, she could hardly stand some of the looks she received from the other men…

Her musings were interrupted by a loud _thump_. She turned quickly towards the sound, nerves heightened in response to the stress of having a potentially-vicious tribe of natives so close at hand. Instead of the bloodthirsty scenes her mind was busy conjuring up, however, her eyes were met with the distinctively comical sight of Oliver attempting to shoulder his daypack. So far, his efforts were in vain.

"Goddammit," he swore, hoisting the strap onto his shoulder, but the bag refused to fight gravity, falling again to the ground, again making the loud _thump_ on contact. He looked around at his colleagues, who had formed a circle around him and watched in amusement. "Oh, sure, point and laugh…. Isn't anyone going to _help_?"

With a chuckle, Simon stepped forward and picked up the bag with seeming ease, then almost as quickly dropped it to the ground again. He looked at Oliver, aghast. "What the _hell_ did you put in here? A body?"

Intrigued, the rest of the team stepped forward, testing the weight of the bag—and, as an unspoken, yet not overlooked aspect, their strength—almost like a carnival game. They all eventually came to the same conclusion, however—that the pack would be impossible to carry for a long distance, much less move.

Christine sighed, trying not to seem too impatient or exasperated; she hadn't counted on this delay. "Oliver, why is the bag so heavy?"

He gave an embarrassed grin, trying to save face. "Ammo."

There fell a short silence, during which only the calls of the birds and the swaying of the lush tropical canopy in the ocean breeze could be heard.

"Excuse me?" said Christine. She shook her head, almost as if trying to clear it so as to better focus. "I don't believe I heard you correctly…. _Ammunition_?"

"Well I figured we would need some sort of protection in case—"

"This isn't a military expedition," began Doctor Flynn. "It's purely expeditionary—"

"I know that, but—"

"Means no guns, Oliver," said Simon. He paused, his expression thoughtful. "Knives perhaps…. But no guns."

Oliver drooped visibly, sighing. "I… guess I'll start unloading, then," he said, dropping to his knees and unzipping the pack.

"That would be wonderful," snapped Christine, her patience wearing thin. "Honestly, Oliver, how could you even begin to think—"

"Look, I'm sorry if I don't want to be roasted alive!" he snapped back, looking up at her from unloading his bag.

A much more ominous silence, much like the one that had filled the Colonel's office the night before, permeated the small group. Christine shivered, turning away from him.

"Sorry," said Oliver, much softer this time.

"Forget it." She was all business now, her fears pushed to the back of her mind; this expedition would _not_ fall apart under her watch. "Place the cartridges at the foot of that tree over there," she said, pointing a slender index finger at the tree in question. "We'll pick them up at sunset."

Oliver nodded, and Christine let him go, gesturing towards her other team members with a wave of her hands. "Let's go. He can catch up when he's done."

"Are you sure it's wise to sep—" began Thomas, but stopped short at the vicious glare Christine leveled at him, her eyes burning.

"We won't go very far," she said shortly, walking forward as she did. "He'll be able to find us." In silence, her team followed her, a trail of baby ducks behind their mother.

She was right; Oliver indeed caught up to them after only a few moments, relieving some of the unspoken tension of the group. Even Christine, in her irritation, was listening intently for his footsteps, and couldn't help the sigh that escaped when he rejoined them.

Looking back, she would wonder if this flood of relief, and subsequent relent of awareness, was the ultimate cause of their downfall. Perhaps she should have let Oliver keep some of the ammunition and the pistol he had thought to bring with him. But thinking about the past does not change it, no matter how desperately one wishes otherwise.

She sensed the presence in the surrounding vegetation before she heard the noises, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up. She paused, feeling her comrades stopping in turn behind her, contemplating turning back, and was about to speak when she saw the flash of movement from the corner of her right eye. The tension around her peaked unbearably.

"Watch out!" she gasped, but it was far, far too late.

They came from all sides, a total and complete ambush. She did not know what was happening, there was so much noise, and blood—

_Blood?_

In the tumult, she got pushed around in time to see Thomas fall to the ground. She fought her way to get to him, but one of the natives barred her way, brandishing a short spear. She watched in horrified fascination as one of the people took a short club and struck the injured Thomas, connecting with his head and producing a sickening crack.

A few feet away from the body lay his hat, untouched by the melee.

She felt numb, like her nerves, her very senses had left her and flown far away to the past, to a land of safety and security. In fact, she could hear the sweet refrains of her father's violin singing, echoing in the vaults of her memory, and she clung to this desperately, knowing if she chose instead to meditate on the gruesome scenes before her, she would most assuredly go mad.

Christine eventually allowed herself to be bound by her hands and led away from the scene, not looking back, just constantly staring down at the moist ground, watching the undergrowth, the vines sprawling underneath her feet, the silent crawl of insects. She tried to block out sounds as well, the foreign babble as the natives spoke to one another, the near-audible frightened anticipation of her team. She raised her head, locking eyes with Oliver, who was next to her on her right. The same fear she saw in his hazel eyes was her own, the dirt smudges on his face from the struggle dusted her own cheeks, the blood spatter from their fallen comrade mirrored the life liquid that marred her own countenance, dampened her hair.

They traversed the forest in silence, and, even in her numbness, she could not help but admire the skill these people had in navigating through the undergrowth and the endless, deceptively peaceful labyrinth of green.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

She wasn't sure how long they had been walking. Awareness was slowly creeping its way back into her mind and body, try though she might to keep it away. The foreign sound of her father's violin faded from her mind, leaving it open and vulnerable to the predicament at hand. Then, she began to feel again.

The twine that bound her wrists behind her back chaffed her skin. She tested her bonds quickly, wincing when they bit. No escaping that way, then.

Though the group traveled in the looming shade of the canopy, her face was still dripping with sweat from the combined forces of the humidity and her exertions—their captors were small, yes, but they traversed the forest floor quickly. She looked to her left at one of the men that flanked her, noting his scanty garb; for half a second, she wondered if she'd be as sweaty as she was if she weren't wearing as much clothing.

She pressed her lips together, thinking, surprised when a stab of pain registered there. Licking her lips slowly to try to assess the damage, she tasted salt and the tinny, peculiar flavor of blood before finding the wound: her bottom lip was swollen. Her tongue gingerly traced the crescent shape of a bite mark there, suddenly realizing that she must have bit her lip too hard at one point. Her mind still fighting off the numbness of shock, however, she couldn't remember when that had happened.

For the first time since they had started on this death trek, she raised her head to look about. She realized that they were now traveling in some sort of bizarre formation, and she was nearly at the rear; she could hear one or two others behind her, grunting occasionally as if under the strain of some sort of weight. With a sinking feeling in her gut, she realized that weight must be Thomas.

Christine pushed the mental images that suddenly plagued her back to the farthest reaches of her mind. She would need her wits about her if she and the rest of her team were going to make it out alive.

But that didn't mean she hadn't caught another glimpse of Thomas' last moments before she had assumed this new mindset.

She looked ahead of her, surveying the smaller forms of her captors, the bowed heads of her colleagues. She ground her teeth in frustration; why had she been moved to the back? When had that even happened? As she berated herself and the situation, she longed to make eye contact with one of her friends. She wasn't sure if speaking would be a good idea; how were they to orchestrate an escape when no one knew what the others were doing?

Not that she had a plan, anyway. It seemed that there were two men for each member of her party, herself included. Always suspicious of so-called 'coincidence', she pondered what this could mean. Had they been targeted? Was this all an elaborate set-up?

Had they been betrayed?

Her thoughts flickered to the honest, nervous face of the good Colonel. No, this couldn't have been his doing. She refused to believe it. He was just as frightened of the natives as she was, had lost men to their hunting parties. There was no way he would have done this to them.

Then something he had said to her resurfaced in her ponderings. These people reputedly only hunted at night; hence the surprising military escort that had met them on the landing strip. If this was true, as she strongly suspected it was… what on earth was going on?

She felt that this was the crux of the riddle, and accordingly, the answer to why they had been taken captive. Making an effort to quiet her now frantic brain activity, she observed the two men beside her more closely.

The man to her right looked much younger than the man on her left; just barely a boy despite all the war paint, a fact that startled her. His hand on her arm as they guided her was shaking—nervousness? Excitement? She wondered if this was some sort of rite of passage for him.

After a few minutes, he noticed her looking at him, for he flicked his deep brown eyes to meet hers for a moment before bowing his head and murmuring something.

Yes, he was definitely only a boy; his voice had barely started breaking.

She wondered if he was strong enough, then, to withstand if she were to move quickly.

Her curiosity was such that it refused to be ignored except in rare cases such as this. While her interest was being piqued in learning more about these people—most especially why they had broken a possibly long-standing tradition in order to hunt during the day—her survival instincts ran deeper. She must get away.

Not quite satisfied with her half-baked plan, yet desperate enough to try it anyway, she made her move. Jerking to the left unexpectedly, then spinning around so that she was facing the back of the group, she darted off. Her eyes were riveted by a clearing in the trees that lay a few hundred feet away from her.

She hadn't expected the maneuver to work; therefore, she was elated that it had. Adrenaline flooded her system as she sprinted, flying over the uneven ground, her hands still tied behind her back. Her legs sped up when she became aware of the men giving chase; she could hear the shouts but didn't dare look behind her, for fear of falling—

Then her foot caught something on the ground, and she pitched forward, cursing. Not having her arms free to break the fall, she attempted to roll, catching the brunt of the force on her right side. There was a sharp snap, and she cried out in pain.

Seconds later, they were there, propping her back up on her feet. She tried to fight them off, squirming, kicking, but the pain was just too much. Giving up, exhausted, she again allowed herself to be led away, back to the rest of the group.

The first thing she noted was the boy that had been on her right, wide-eyed and frightened as another man spoke to him in loud tones. She didn't need to understand what was being said to know that he was in trouble.

Next, she realized with a start that the remaining members of her team were now pressed face-first against the trunk of a large tree, four or five men glaring at them, brandishing spears. Several feet away from them lay one of the natives, unconscious. Next to him was Thomas' prone, pale form, and next to _him_—

"_No_!" The cry was hoarse and tore itself from her throat. She attempted to run forward but found her way barred by two more natives bearing spears. The men who had retrieved her gripped her arms tighter, leading her away, towards the large tree. "NO!"

She slumped against the massive trunk. The sobs that racked her body aggravated the pain in her side, making it difficult to breathe. She closed her eyes, but try though she might, she couldn't eradicate the picture of her dear friend lying on the ground beside Thomas.

"I don't think he's dead," said a voice after a while, close on her left.

Christine attempted to regain control of herself and her emotions, but it was becoming more and more difficult to do so. She leaned to her left, resting against the owner of the voice for support, the bark of the tree scratching her face as she moved. "Wh-what do you mean?" Again, that disturbing image…

"After you started running, we tried to break free," explained another voice, this time on her right. "But we were outnumbered. Jonathon put up one hell of a fight, and when most of the attention was focused on subduing him, the good Doctor,"—Christine couldn't help the sob that escaped her then—"somehow managed to get his hands free and clocked one of them. It was amazing; I've never seen anything like it in my life."

"They were about to go in for me," continued the voice on her left, quieter, sadder this time. "He was trying to untie me; they got him from behind."

"Some sort of dart," said yet another voice on her right. "I'm trying to convince myself it's tranquilizer, not poison."

She stiffened when she felt hands on her again, pulling her away from the tree. She looked to her left, startled that she had been leaning on Jonathon, and not on Oliver as she had originally thought. Another lump rose in her throat as she half-smiled at him before being led away, this time in the front of the group. _God must have a sick sense of humor_, she thought—why else would he look so unbearably much like Raoul?

She fought against the fresh onslaught of tears that threatened at her eyes. She would live to see her fiancé again. She _would_.

But despite her fierce determination, she fell into despair quickly. Her one chance for escape had failed. She doubted another opportunity would present itself, so how was she to—?

"Oh," she gasped, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth against the pain in her side, throbbing as she walked.

"Christine?" Oliver's voice, behind her and slightly to her right.

"I'm—fine," she panted, fighting to keep her pace steady. She was tempted to stop, to see what her new guards, gripping her tightly by the arms, would do. "I think one of my ribs is broken, that's all."

"Those fucking—!" He couldn't even finish, he sounded so enraged.

"Stop it," she said, trying to turn around; the two men beside her wouldn't let her. She settled for turning her head, looking at him. "Stop. I fell, it was my fault." She paused, lowering her eyes from his. "This is all my fault."

"Don't start talking that way," interrupted Simon. She couldn't see him, but he sounded a little further behind her than Oliver. "We'll get out of this, so don't say that. It's no one's fault."

This aggravated her. "Thomas is dead," she stated, staring straight ahead of her now. "The Doctor might as well be. And as soon as we stop walking, as soon as we reach wherever it is we're headed… we'll be dead, too." She gulped. "I'm going to die. We're going to die, and it's _all my fault_."

It was quiet then, just footsteps and breathing. She took the silence as an affirmation of what she had just said. They would all die. They would all die, and no one would know for sure what had happened to them, and it was her fault. She thought of her unfinished work, the criticism and scrutiny her employer would be under once news of the failed expedition leaked out. She thought of Meg, and of dear, sweet Raoul… Pain stabbed at her heart as hot tears filled her eyes, leaking over and burning their way down her face, blurring her vision.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry…"

--

It was another twenty minutes or so of walking and whispered apologies when they heard them—drums. Not that Christine was counting, of course. It's a grim thing to do, to count the minutes until one's imminent death.

But counting or not, Christine knew she was running out of time.

Her heart rate accelerated to match the frenzied drum rhythms that penetrated the air, her mind disturbingly blank. She stepped forward, conscious only of the movement of her body, the pain at her wrists, her side, and the drums, always the drums. Louder they grew, and louder, until she could hear chanting, screams.

They were close.

A shudder passed through her at the thought, and she tried to slow her pace, but it seemed her body had detached itself from conscious control.

She startled when their captors let out a loud answering whoop in response to the drums and cries. She then found herself passing through a veritable curtain of foliage before being blinded.

Christine blinked rapidly at the ray of sun that filtered through the large clearing, turning her head to the ground as the dark sun spots danced across her vision. The drums throbbed around them, sound made tangible, tension mounting as the cries grew more frantic, urgent, excitable—then suddenly cutting off.

The ensuing silence was deafening.

Confused, she looked around. There, several feet in front of her, stood a tall, abnormally thin man, swathed in a dark cloak and made up to look like a skeleton. Her blood turned to ice as she beheld him, Death, come to visit.

He held his slender arms above his head, fingers splayed, a clear signal for the silence that now suddenly attempted to fill in the massive hole the aching beat of the drums had left behind. Mesmerized, she couldn't look away when he turned to look at her a, jolt speeding down her spine as their eyes met. She gasped. His face…

But then, he began to speak, thus erasing all immediate thoughts of his face.

The clear voice that grappled with silence's tenuous hold was unearthly; there was no better word for it. Christine shivered and closed her eyes as the voice seemed to catch her up and spin her around, weaving a cocoon of peace and quiet beauty the likes of which she had never before experienced. She listened to the foreign syllables that filled the large clearing to the brim, filled her mind and settled into her soul, closing the empty, raw spaces of recent loss stitch by gentle stitch. Her breath slowed. She opened her eyes.

He was still looking—no, _staring_—at her as he spoke. She shivered again, daring to meet his eyes, those strange, amber eyes that seemed almost to glow from their dark hollows set above the terrible gap that served as his nose. He smiled at her, more of a smirk than anything else, his thin lips quirking up at the edges before barking out an order of some sort.

She found herself being marched forward, towards the horrible man that so captivated her. The scientist in her ached to know what it was that had rendered his face so—her first thought was leprosy; the little girl in her ached to run away. The woman, however, found she could neither speak, nor run, so instead remained silent, her feet carrying her ever closer to him.

She was allowed to stop only a few paces away from him, doing so gratefully. Unnerved by his unwavering gaze, yet wanting to stand her ground, she merely stared straight ahead, focusing on a tree branch slightly above his head. He spoke then. She listened intently, thinking it a question from his tone. The man to her right answered; from out of the corner of her eye, she could see him gesturing at her side.

The imposing figure before her spoke once more; he seemed displeased by something.

Christine's concentration broke when she felt the bonds on her wrists fall away. Someone had cut her loose! But why? She brought her arms forward in wonder to look at them, wincing at the deep pink grooves that marked her pale skin there.

The skeleton man hissed. Christine snapped her eyes up in alarm, becoming more puzzled as she realized he, too, was examining her chaffed wrists. Another man from the hunting party stepped forward, speaking hurriedly.

What was going on here? Why had they cut her free? Was all this—hope beyond all hope—merely a misunderstanding? Her heart rate picked up again at the thought, mind racing. She would get out of here. Alive! She wouldn't have to die today, she wouldn't have to lose anyone else…

Occupied by her thoughts, she missed the silent exchange between the skeleton man and the man who had stepped forward to speak. The latter posed a question, gesturing quickly at his own neck; the former nodded once.

A sudden shout behind her brought Christine back to the present. More shouts, a scream. A gurgle. A thud. Then the clearing erupted in sound once more.

Unthinking, she spun around to find the source of the shout, bringing her newly-freed hands to her mouth when she felt the bile rise in her throat.

There before her lay Jonathon, green eyes wide and staring, his mouth moving slowly in an attempt to speak; warm blood spurted from his neck where they had slit his throat and jugular, spraying the surrounding soil. The natives stood in a frantic circle around the fallen body, drums pounding, some even venturing to dance, though careful not to touch him. The spurts from his neck slowed with his heart, until, finally, the crimson merely trickled from the wound before being greedily absorbed into the soil.

Christine gagged, fighting to keep her breakfast down. Jonathon's vacant eyes stared into her own, a silent accusation, pinning her into place as first Simon, then Oliver, and finally the still-unconscious Doctor met with the same fate. Oliver cried out to her before he fell, silent, but so overcome with horror, she hadn't heard what he said. Her mind turned up blank, her eyes unseeing as she began to shut down for the second time today, in an attempt to save her sanity.

The quiet numbness with which she regarded the outside world would not last, however. The drums found a way in, shattering her sanctum with their rhythmic ferocity. She soon registered the skeleton man watching her, watching for an expression, an outcry, any sort of indication that she was seeing the same thing he was. But she wasn't, she didn't see the endless rivulets of blood steadily collecting in the center of the circle, the blood that continued to stain the earth, darkening the already dark soil—

Christine shut her eyes tightly and turned her head away; she felt positively sick. Death was everywhere, seeping into the soil beneath her feet and burning her nostrils, unseeing eyes and gaping, silent mouths that pleaded in her mind for help. To her continued horror, she felt fingers of ice grasp her chin tightly and force her head so that she was facing forward again, felt the horrid man's presence behind her, shuddered and nearly cried out when he swept her hair away from her ear and leaned in close.

"You must watch," he growled in French, startling her immensely in its abrupt change in timbre and tone; it filled her with even more terror than before, knowing that, at some point, this man had been civilized, had spoken French to others on an everyday basis, had possibly grown up in the metropolis—_just like her_.

Yet she could not afford to even begin to make any sort of connection with this monster; she shook her head violently, keeping her eyes shut at all costs, already having trouble mastering her ears, listening to the violent ululations of the natives in celebration, thanking God that she could no longer hear the frantic cries and calls for help from her team—

Christine wrenched violently away from the strange man, only to feel a cold, biting pressure around her wrist where his long fingers dug into her skin. "Stop, please," she rasped, her mouth dry. "Please… I—I'm going to be sick."

Instead of letting her go as she had anticipated, he led her away from the circle of blood and gore, pulling her into the trees. She felt his grasp lessen suddenly, and she lurched forward, retching violently, disgusted with herself and the sights she had just witnessed.

The gags kept coming long after her stomach had emptied itself of its contents. She was vaguely aware of someone holding back her hair as wave after wave of bile rose in her throat, the acrid smell of her vomit unsettling her already unsettled stomach. She fought to take a breath without the accompanying dry heaves, wiping at her mouth with her dirty sleeve as she stood up straight. A native woman offered her the hollow half shell of a coconut filled with water, which she accepted readily, first rinsing out her mouth and spitting, then gulping the cool liquid down, soothing her throat. Sighing, quite suddenly drowsy, she closed her eyes. The drums seemed to be getting steadily further and further away.

"Sleep, Christine. Sleep," crooned the angelic voice belonging to a demon, the last thing she heard before everything faded to black.


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N:** A much shorter chapter than the last few have been, sorry. I still hope you enjoy it, though, and feedback is always appreciated! Also, I'm attempting to do NaNoWriMo again this year, with a completely different story and everything, so don't expect another update until December-ish. I hope this will tide you over until then. Thank you all so much for reading!

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Only the constant chirp of crickets pierced the darkness of the forest now, but occasionally, a sharp breeze would bring with it the whisper of a shout or a gunshot from the military outpost on the coast. The dark, silent figure making the rounds worried not about these things, however. They were safe.

She was safe.

Again, his thoughts wandered to his prize. Christine, one of them had called her. Christine.

Christine.

She was perfect.

He smiled.

--

"How is she?"

Wipu paused in his work to look for the owner of the voice that had addressed him softly. He smiled when his eyes found her, shrouded in the shadows by the entrance of the large hut. Knowing she was waiting for a signal to approach, he beckoned her closer, hands wet and sticky from the medicine he was currently applying to the unconscious woman's side.

"She is very badly bruised," said Wipu, smoothing the herb mixture over the area, ivory now colored black and blue. "A rib is broken, maybe two."

"She hasn't woken up?" Adua's voice was strained. He didn't need to look at her to know she was angry.

"Thankfully, no. I imagine this would be painful, were she conscious." He continued rubbing the mixture into the woman's skin as he spoke. "Very painful," he murmured.

"What is the poultice for?"

"To help with the swelling," he explained. "I could check for breaks right now, but I don't want to; she's been through enough already. If the swelling goes down, I'll check tomorrow."

"You might have to drug her again to do so."

Wipu looked sharply up at her from his crouch, pausing once more in his work. "What do you mean, Adua?"

"Do you really think she would trust us?" Her voice was sharp, biting. "She is being held against her will."

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth softly, thinking as he went back to work, grabbing a small piece of cloth and pressing it against the woman's side, covering the medicine and setting it in place.

"What about Rasghon? Has _he_ woken up?"

Wipu stood slowly, refusing to look at her. "No," he whispered. "I treated his wounds—a large cut on the head—but he still won't wake up." He flicked his gaze towards the dark form of the man lying a few feet away from his current patient.

"What are you going to tell your mother? Your sisters?"

He sighed heavily, bowing his head. "I don't have to say anything. Yet."

"Yet? Do you mean…?" Her eyes went wide with shock.

He nodded slowly. "I don't expect him to last."

She made the customary gesture over her forehead. "I'm sorry."

"It's no matter," he said briskly, pushing her sympathies aside; he didn't want to dwell on this just yet. "Death is a necessary part of the Cycle, and it happens all the time—"

"There hasn't been a passing since Laon, and you know it. This is all Senatu's fault," she fumed.

"Adua…"

"It is! You can't silence me on this, Wipu, I will not allow it. Think for yourself for just one moment. What has he accomplished in kidnapping this woman? Nothing. And now, she is hurt, and your father is dying. For what, Wipu? _For what?_"

He stared at her for a few moments before turning his back and taking a few steps away. His posture seemed off to her, almost as if he were slumped over.

Adua sighed and stepped towards him then, touching his shoulder with a few of her fingers. "I _am_ sorry, Wipu," she began softly. "I didn't mean…"

"It's not your fault for asking legitimate questions of me," he replied, turning and sweeping her up into an embrace. "After all, your job as an apprentice is to be curious and critical of what you observe."

She kissed his cheek. "But my job as your _mate_ is to be supportive," she pointed out.

"Then I believe we have something of a problem there."

She laughed, pushing him away in playful scorn. "Who would you have me be, then? Your apprentice, or your mate?"

He thought on this for a moment. "I honestly don't know. Though," he added conspiratorially as he pulled her close once more, resting his hands on her hips, "for the moment, I'm highly inclined to answer 'apprentice'."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

"So I have an excuse to order you around," he joked quietly, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"Oh, hush," she said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

He chuckled, sliding his hands from her hips to the slight protrusion of her abdomen. "The child is growing." He said it with slight awe.

"Everyday," she whispered. "Sometimes, I think I can feel it moving, inside. Almost like…" She paused, considering what the small sensations felt like and what word would be adequate to describe such a wonder. "Like… the flutter of a butterfly."

"You're carrying low. You know what that means." He grinned at her.

"Wipualo, just because you want a son so badly does not mean you should let that cloud your judgment," she said. "It's far too early to tell. Just wait a few Moons and see what the midwives say."

"Perhaps…"

"So impatient," she sighed as he kissed her forehead once more before retreating to the injured woman, watching as he checked for a pulse against her pure, white neck.

"Adua? The night is growing old. You should rest."

"So should you," she countered, but not unkindly.

"I have a few more things to do here. Then I'll join you."

She nodded once, though she suddenly realized he couldn't see her where she stood. "All right. Oh, Wipu? Make sure you cover her up." She knew her mate and teacher had sense, but he seemed distracted, and she didn't want the poor woman's condition to worsen as she lay there, barely clothed.

"Of course. Thank you. Dream well."

"I'll wait for you," she murmured, turning around and leaving, pausing to look back once as she pushed aside the thick hide that covered the opening of the large dwelling before passing into the night outside.

Wipu breathed a sigh of relief as she left; as well meaning as she was, he found her to be terribly distracting. And distractions would not serve him well when he was Healing.

He pressed against the poultice with his hand. The swelling of the area had already gone down, but only a little. He smiled, reassured that he had made the correct diagnosis.

Taking a small hand-held drum lying next to him with all the rest of his supplies, he began to chant, swaying back and forth slowly, tapping the drum to keep time. He asked the gods to be with the woman in her healing—it irked him that he didn't know her name, as that knowledge would ensure a more speedy recovery—and in her future dealings with his Master. Senatu was an impetuous man, he knew; this woman had already been through so much, he just hoped his Master would understand and be patient with her.

After the proper supplications and thanks had been offered, Wipu moved on to his next patient, Rasghon, his father. Taking up the drum again, he asked the gods for strength, and to assist him in saving this man, his father. Regret filled him as he said these words aloud, nearly breaking his concentration; he was never fond of his father, even as a boy. Laon, former high priest of the village and his mentor, had been more of a father to him than anyone. Now, however, with Laon gone, and his birth father fading quickly, he longed to have the past back, to get to know the man on the ground before him better before he passed into the Realm of Spirits.

He invoked some choice Spirits, too, before ending the ritual—powerful ancestors, and particularly Laon. He knew he would need their guidance in the days ahead.

--

He heard the footsteps long before their owner emerged into the clearing from behind the curtain of growth, stepping softly. He knew who had come to speak with him, but for the moment he chose to ignore him, continuing his meditation on the star-speckled sky above. The nighttime calmed him and completed him in ways he could not fully explain, and he knew that he would have to be calm if his plans were to come to fruition.

The man standing behind him shifted his weight. "How is your father doing?" he asked finally, still not looking away from the stars.

"Rasghon is fading," was the abrupt reply.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Wipu."

"Are you?"

He finally turned to look at the much smaller man, quirking a thin eyebrow. "I am. Unless you would have me not be, for whatever reason."

"I…" Wipu sighed heavily. "I apologize, Senatu. It's been a long day. Too long."

"Then you should rest, if you are to properly care for your patients," he pointed out.

"Yes. Adua said the same thing."

"She is a marvelous young woman. Very intelligent. You're a lucky man, my friend."

Silence stretched out between them again, before Wipu said, slowly, "Adua… also believes that you made a bad decision today. If… when Rasghon dies… she will blame his death on you."

"I'm very much aware of that."

"You don't sound concerned, Senatu."

"Because I am not," he said.

"You would be willing to live with such an accusation? To have the blood of a man on your hands—my father's blood?" His voice cracked as he spoke, fighting against outrage and tears, fighting to understand.

He sighed. "Wipu, you didn't know me, before..."

"I don't understand."

The man with the face of a skeleton turned once more to look the high priest straight in the eyes, palms outstretched. "I have much blood on my hands already."

Wipu flinched away from the older man's frank gaze, away from this sudden revelation. He shook his head. "No. I don't believe it."

"One day, Wipualo, you will come to understand that not all men are good, as you insist," he said, the regret tangible in his glowing golden eyes. "One day, you will pause, and stare at the world and wonder why. And, fool that I am… I hope that day never comes for you."

"Senatu—"

"Get some rest," he said, and turned to wander deeper into the forest, leaving the stunned young man in the clearing to stare in silence after him.


End file.
